A Suitable Vengeance

“I don’t see patients. Oh, perhaps the occasional terminal case who volunteers for an experimental drug. But if Tina Cogin was one of them and she’s disappeared…Excuse me for the levity, but there’s only one place she’d be disappearing to and it wouldn’t be Cornwall.”


“Then you may well have seen her in a different light.”

Trenarrow looked perplexed. “Sorry?”

“She may be a prostitute.”

The doctor’s gold-rimmed spectacles slid fractionally down his nose. He knuckled them back into place and said, “And she had my name?”

“No. Just your number.”

“My address?”

“Not even that.”

Trenarrow pushed himself out of his chair. He walked over to the window behind the desk. He spent a long moment studying the view before he turned back to St. James. “I’ve not set foot in London in a year. Perhaps more. But I suppose that makes little enough difference if she’s come to Cornwall. Perhaps she’s making house calls.” He smiled wryly. “You don’t really know me, Mr. St. James, so you have no way of knowing if I’m telling you the truth. But let me say that it’s not been my habit to pay a woman for sex. Some men do it without flinching, I realise. But I’ve always preferred love-making to grow out of a passion other than avarice. This other—the negotiating first, the exchange of cash later—that’s not my style.”

“Was it Mick’s?”

“Mick’s?”

“He was seen leaving her flat Friday morning in London. He may well have given her your number, in fact. Perhaps for some sort of consultation.”

Trenarrow’s fingers went to the rosebud on his lapel, touching its tightly furled petals. “That’s a possibility,” he said thoughtfully. “Although referrals generally come from physicians, it is a possibility if she’s seriously ill. Mick knew cancer research is my line of work. He’d done an interview with me shortly after he took over the Spokesman. It’s not inconceivable that he might have given her my name. But Cambrey and a prostitute? That’s going to put a wrench in his reputation. His father’s been fanning the fires of Mick’s sexual profligacy for the last year at least. And believe me, nothing he’s said has ever alluded to Mick having to pay for a woman’s favours. According to Harry, so many women were throwing themselves at the poor lad that he barely had time to pull his trousers up before someone was moaning to have them back down. If involvement with a prostitute led to Mick’s murder, it’ll be sad times for Harry. He seems to be hoping it was from a row with a dozen or two jealous husbands.”

“Or one jealous wife?”

“Nancy?” Trenarrow said incredulously. “I can’t see her hurting anyone, can you? And even if she had somehow been driven beyond endurance—it was no secret, after all, that Mick saw other women—when could she have done it? She couldn’t have been in two places at once.”

“She was gone from the refreshment booth for a good ten minutes or more.”

“Time to run home, murder her husband, and reappear as if everything were well? The thought’s a bit absurd, considering the girl. Someone else might have managed it with aplomb, but Nancy’s no actress. If she’d killed her husband during the evening, I doubt she could have hidden it from a soul.”

There was certainly a weight of evidence to support Trenarrow’s declaration. From start to finish, Nancy’s reactions had borne the unmistakable stamp of authenticity. Her shock, her numb grief, her rising anxiety. None of them had seemed in the least bit factitious. It hardly seemed likely that she’d run home, killed her husband, and feigned horror later. That being the case, St. James considered the problem of suspects. John Penellin had been in the area that night, as had Peter Lynley and Justin Brooke. Perhaps Harry Cambrey had paid a visit to the cottage as well. And Mark Penellin’s whereabouts were still unaccounted for. Yet a motive for the crime was not clearly emerging. Each one they considered was nebulous at best. And more than anything, a motive needed clear definition if anyone was to understand the full circumstances of Mick Cambrey’s death.



St. James noticed Harry Cambrey almost immediately as Cotter pulled the car back onto Paul Lane. He was climbing towards them. He waved energetically as they approached. The cigarette between his fingers left a tiny plume of smoke in the air.

“Who’s this?” Cotter slowed the car.

“Mick Cambrey’s father. Let’s see what he wants.”

Cotter pulled to the side of the road, and Harry Cambrey came to St. James’ window. He leaned into the car, bringing with him the mixed odours of tobacco smoke and beer. His appearance had undergone some improvement since St. James and Lady Helen had seen him on Saturday morning. His clothes were fresh, his hair was combed, and although a few overlooked whiskers sprouted here and there like grey bristles on his cheeks, his face was largely shaven as well.

He was panting, and he winced as if the words hurt him when he spoke. “Howenstow folks said you’d be here. Come down to the office. Something to show you.”